Page 72 of Detectives in Love
“I’m Xavier Ormond, and this is my partner, Newt Doherty. We’re from the Partners-in-Crime Detective Agency. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
Her expression hardens. “I’ve already spoken to the police. Are you journalists or something?”
“No,” I say quickly. “We’re working with the SCPD on the investigation.”
I purposely avoid sayingyour husband’s death—she already looks like she’s barely holding it together.
She leans against the doorframe, eyeing us, one hand gripping the handle like she’s deciding whether to just slam the door in our faces. But then her expression shifts, a flicker of recognition passing through as her gaze moves from Xavier to me. She narrows her eyes.
“Alright,” she says, and steps aside to let us in.
Inside, the living room is warm and cluttered. One wall is lined with bookshelves, packed so full the colorful spines lean into each other for space. Across from them, a glass cabinet displays porcelain figurines and old photographs. Two little boys—one maybe four, the other around seven—sit cross-legged on the rug, locked in battle with toy soldiers.
Mrs. Bridge shows us to the couch. The boys glance up at us, eyes full of curiosity.
“Hello there,” I say, offering a smile. They keep playing, a little wary.
I sink into the cushions. Xavier sits beside me, perched on the edge—focused, already switched on.
Without preamble, he asks, “Mrs. Bridge, what time did your husband usually get home?”
She settles into the chair across from us, frowning. “After eleven, most nights. I’ve already told the police.”
“His office was nearby, right?” Xavier says, ignoring the comment.
Her gaze flicks to her boys, a sad smile ghosting across her lips.
“Yeah. About a ten-minute walk. When Cormac’s firm moved here, we thought we’d lucked out—shorter commute, safer neighborhood… It seemed too good to be true.” She pauses, blinking rapidly as her eyes start to tear up. “Sorry,” she murmurs, tugging a crumpled tissue from her pocket.
“He installed cameras in people’s homes,” I say. “So he traveled too.”
Mrs. Bridge nods. “He worked out of the office, and when he needed to go on-site he’d take the company car. He’d bring it back and walk home.”
Xavier doesn’t miss a beat. “Did you speak to him that day?”
“Yeah. A couple of times. I called just before he was supposed to head home.”
Xavier’s eyes narrow. “What did you talk about?”
She exhales, shoulders sagging. “Nothing much. I asked him to grab milk—he said he would. It was just a quick call…” She trails off, dabbing at her eyes again.
The older boy abandons his toys and wanders over to me. I give him a quick smile and turn back to his mother, but he pipes up, “Mister, do you have a gun?”
I blink, caught off guard, then shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
He squints at me like he’s checking for a lie. Xavier gives him a blank glance, then turns back to Mrs. Bridge. “Did your husband ever work from home?”
She frowns. “Yes. Why does that matter?”
“Did he have a computer?”
“Yes. A laptop.” She hesitates. “It’s in his study. I can get it for you.”
Xavier stands. “It’s fine—I’ll go with you.”
“Alright.” Mrs. Bridge gets up, then glances at me. “Could you stay with the boys, please?”
I nod. “Sure.”
